Jeremy was standing outside of Joe's Liquor, leaning against the brick wall in his baggy coat and pants. He was woozy against that wall, with his yellow skin and his flat, long hair soaking in the burnt orange streetlight just like a sponge.

First he asked me whether I had a cigarette, then, disappointed, whether I'd like to go to his house with him. His words came out stumbling, burdened with alcohol and hushed with hopelessness. He was withered and non-threatening, a skinny, weak thing cringing from the snowy night in his big, ill fitting clothes. And so I went.